Sacrifice
by Crowsnight66
Summary: "As long as the god is appeased with his lover, the village's crops will flourish and the babies will be healthy. All at the cost of one virgin. It's a great deal, and very simple. Unless you're the virgin." FrUK.


**Warning: This story is rated T for shounen-ai/yaoi and major character death (sort of).**

 **Note: This story is based on a writing prompt on Pinterest:**

" **Your village left you behind in the forest to die as a sacrifice for the god of the forest. After a while, the god shows up, but it's not interested in your death. Instead, it's looking for a new servant."**

 _ **Sacrifice**_

"' _Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all."_

― _Alfred Lord Tennyson_

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

The rock is warm now, just from how long I've been laying on it. Well, "laying" isn't really the best term; the villagers―people that supposedly care for me―tied me to it. So here I am. Sprawled out on a big rock in the middle of the forest, completely bare in the chilly, autumn twilight. My limbs hurt, and my nose is still stuffy from a mix of crying and allergies.

After hours of laying there―the villagers left at noon; the sky is deep sapphire now―there's a sudden wind, making the trees dance above me and caressing my skin with icy kisses on each goose bump that rises. I close my eyes and beg my body not to tremble; I don't want to anger him. But I can't help it. Just as much as I can control being tied to this rock, I can control the way I shake as I hear footsteps.

The memories from mythology class surface in my mind, even as I desperately try to make them go away, along with the artworks of the ugly, slimy god. Once every fifty years, the village sacrifices someone―a virgin, always between the ages of sixteen and nineteen, but the adults always wonder why teenage sex is such an epidemic in our village―to that disgusting god. As long as the god is appeased with his lover, the village's crops will flourish and the babies will be healthy. All at the cost of one virgin. It's a great deal, and very simple.

Unless you're the virgin.

The footsteps halt, the weight shifting and crunching the leaves underfoot. The wind ceases. I squeeze my eyes shut further until I see red and white bursts in my black vision.

Then rustling.

 _He's undressing. It's going to hurt so much. I'm going to bleed, and then he'll be angry and be even rougher―_

Soft warmth falls over me. At first, I think it's him, but no, it's fur. It has to be fur. And a blanket or something, no less, large enough that it covers most of my body, save for my head, wrists, and ankles.

"I apologize, young one; your people misread my texts." The voice is smooth and soft, like flower petals. "I wish that they would stop being so barbaric in their offerings."

I flinch as fingertips touch my wrist, but then the rope is becoming looser, looser until it falls away.

"And they always tie the ropes far too tightly."

More movement. Fingers pulling at the rope around my other wrist.

I remain as still as possible. But I slowly open my eyes, and all I see are little sprigs of fur.

My ankles are released from their binds one after the other.

The next thing I see is blue. Blue, blue eyes, blinking down at me as flawless lips pull into a soft smile. Pale blonde hair falls around his shoulders, and when he leans closer to me, a few strands spill over the curve of his ear, but he quickly tucks them back again.

 _So beautiful_.

"And what do they call you, young one?" he asks.

I blink a few times, my brow pulling down. "A-Arthur."

"It suits you," he murmurs. When he pulls back, my eyes start going down. His shirt seems to be soft yellow, but his robe is a pale blue, the fabric going and going until I can't see anymore. Nothing really fancy.

"Are you...are you the god of good faith?" I ask, but I still don't move.

"There is no need for such titles," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "You may call me Francis." Then he holds out his hand to me. "Shall we go? Can you walk?"

I nod slowly. When I sit up, I clasp the fur blanket against my chest and take his hand with the other. I'm still shaking, and as Francis helps me off the rock and onto my unsteady legs, he says, "You have nothing to fear, Arthur. As I said, your people misread my texts." Then he leads me a few steps from the rock. "Close your eyes."

As soon as I do, the air whips around me. The uneven dirt below my feet is replaced by smooth, cold…something. I open my eyes again.

Everything is bright. White tile, a high ceiling of clouds, and a pool of water the size of a swimming pool. Maybe it is a swimming pool, but it has a gold bath faucet and steam rising from it, so I assume that it's a bathtub.

"I find that baths help humans relax into their surroundings," Francis says after a moment.

I don't look up at him. _Relax. And wash off before…before…._

"Arthur, listen." A pause, and I keep my eyes on his bare feet, which are a bit dirty. "In my language, the word for 'friend' and 'lover' are the same. Do you understand? You do not need to fear me."

My hand tightens on the blanket. "Then what do you want from me?"

"Just because I am a god, that does not mean that I have no emotion. I feel pain and love and loneliness just as you do." Francis takes my free hand and holds it in both of his slightly larger ones. "I want a friend. And if you begin to have feelings of more than friendship later, we can be closer. But if you do not enjoy my company within a year, you are free to leave."

I nod.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

There are some things about the whole situation that I don't like. For instance, we sleep in the same bed. But the bed is as big as the bathtub is, and the mattress is like a cloud, so…it's more than tolerable. The majority of my food is meat, bread, and fruit. No tea. No junk food.

And Francis actually has a job. He goes to meetings and sometimes disappears into the forest for hours, returning covered in mud and leaves.

Six months pass. I never mention leaving.

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

"Truly, how do you manage to get this filthy?" I grumble, mostly to myself, as I step into the bath after Francis.

"I have to care for the animals and plants; that requires being in the dirt," Francis huffs.

The water is magical. I'm not sure in what way, but the faucet is always running as background noise, the water stays hot, and no matter how much dirt I wash off of Francis, the bubbles are always white and the water always clear.

As I'm rubbing Francis back, he grunts. I press just under his shoulder blade again, and this time, he gasps.

"You gave yourself a knot again," I mutter. But regardless, I begin to work the muscle out, and if Francis thinks that I'm purposely being gentle, he's mistaken. No, I'm not gentle. Even when his little pained noises cause my fingertips to barely prod at the sore area sometimes, it's not because I'm being gentle.

After a few minutes of massaging, I ask, "What happens after fifty years?"

"Hm?"

"I mean, we sacrifice people every fifty years, but that's not a normal lifespan. What happens to the people here after fifty years?"

Francis pauses for a long moment. "Time moves more quickly in this dimension, if that makes sense. About twice as fast. For fifty years that passes on Earth, a hundred or so years pass here."

"A-ah."

"So you will likely pass away before the fifty years are over." Another pause. "I am sorry if you wanted to be able to live with your family again."

My hands slow. Eventually, they simple rest on Francis's shoulders. "My family let me be sacrificed without any objection, even though my village believes you are a cruel beast that only uses his sacrifice as a sex doll." I feel Francis clench beneath my hands. "I don't particularly want to see them again."

After a minute of continuing the massage, Francis asks, "Are you happy here?"

"Yes," I say without hesitation.

"I am glad."

I'm nineteen. The year has passed.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

Francis keeps a calendar for me, just so that I know my surroundings better than just whether the sky is dark or light.

I begin to write in a journal as well. It's something to do when Francis isn't around, and I wonder if maybe Francis could give it to my family after I'm gone. Just so that the village knows that Francis isn't a monster.

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

Sometime after we start bathing together and I begin writing every day, I find myself in the middle of the bed. And that's fine, except that Francis sleeps in the middle of the bed. But it's not like I rolled halfway across the bed in my sleep or took a nap there while he wasn't home. No, it was very deliberate.

After we finish playing a card game―which I win for the first time―Francis mentions going to bed since the sun has gone down.

"Alright. I'm going to get ready for bed then," I say before going into the bathroom. Because unlike Francis, I'm still human, which means using the bathroom, brushing my teeth, and all those other hassles.

When I leave, Francis is already dressed down in fuzzy pajama pants―something I introduced him to―and cuddling his favorite pillow. So I change into my usual t-shirt and jogging shirts before I slip into the blankets on my end of the bed, which is about ten feet away.

Within two minutes, I get up and walk around to the middle of the bed, crawling up beside Francis. He doesn't say anything, and he doesn't try to touch me. But when I cuddle closer, he moves his pillow so that both of us can rest our heads on it.

It's been three years since I was sacrificed. My twenty-first birthday.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

"How many people have you loved?" When Francis raises an eyebrow at me, I clarify, "Sacrifices."

"Many. Some as brothers and sisters; others as partners."

"Do you remember them all?"

"Of course."

"How? You're thousands of years old―" I cut myself off, looking down at the head on my shoulder, at the body curled around mine. "Why would you put yourself through that pain? If you know that they're going to die eventually, why would you want sacrifices? Being alone is better than that, isn't it?"

"How is being alone better?" he replies quietly. "That is the same as saying that your parents will likely die before you so there is no point in spending time with them."

I open my mouth to reply. Then I close it.

"I am glad that I met you, Arthur. And while you may be one of many, I cherish you and fall deeper in love with you each day," Francis murmurs into my collarbone.

Later that night, we have dinner with a delicious cake to celebrate my twenty-fifth birthday.

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

Go Fish is a fun game, especially when I have beaten a god at it nine times of ten. It's also something I can do without wearing myself out, though I never tell Francis that. I think he knows anyways.

"You don't actually age, do you?" I ask as I shuffle the deck.

Francis shakes his head, and some of his hair falls away from his ear. He quickly tucks the graying strands back in their place. "No, not really. For gods, age is an expression of power. Children have little power, but have potential; the elderly are very powerful and have reached the height of their power."

"Where does that leave you?"

"I should appear younger; I really am very weak in comparison to the other gods, but I have a very dedicated following, unlike some of my friends." Francis shrugs. "I match my physical age to that of my partner for comfort's sake."

I deal out the cards quickly before I reply. "So when I'm gone…you'll look twenty again?"

"Something like that, I suppose."

"And you'll take another sacrifice?"

"Yes."

I nod, arranging my cards while I wait for Francis to ask for a card. When he says nothing, I glance up, only to find his gaze on me. No matter how old he looks, those eyes are always the same. How does he keep them so bright and loving? "It's your turn."

"Are you jealous?"

"What?"

"Are you jealous because you think I will forget you in favor of the next sacrifice?"

I glance down at my cards. "I'm not jealous. I just think that it's odd how you can be…a widow so many times, yet always fall in love again."

Francis is silent for a long moment. Then he tilts his head down. "Humans will grieve a passed spouse for a few years before they will consider dating again. Is that a fair assumption?"

"Yes."

"Often times, I have twenty years to mourn, give or take a few years." Francis pauses. "Just because there have been many, that does not mean that I do not grieve or miss them, and I remember each person very clearly." Then he looks up at me, and his eyes shine just a bit too much, the rims a little too red. "Arthur, I cannot tell you that you are the only one I have ever loved or that I will never love anyone after you. But I _do_ love you, so very much, and you will always be close to my heart, no matter how many others fill the space around you."

"That doesn't really make sense," I mutter.

"I cannot h―"

"But you have to promise me something."

Francis blinks. "What is it?"

"My journal. I want the village to have it." Then I pause. "I mean, my first one. So that the sacrifices after me aren't scared out of their minds about everything."

"Of course."

It's the first time I've asked him for a serious birthday present. You only turn seventy once.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

Alfred curses as he storms out of the house. Not his brother. Not his _twin_. Matthew doesn't deserve this, _any_ of this. He turns back to the house long enough to scream, "SCREW YOU AND YOUR STUPID TRADITIONS!"

His rampage takes him into the forest. And eventually, he collapses against a tree, tears leaking from his eyes.

Footsteps sound on the grass.

When Alfred looks up, there's a blonde man with blue eyes. He has a spiral-bound journal in his hand, offering it to Alfred.

"Who are you?"

"A future friend of your brother, I believe." The man sets the journal on Alfred's lap. "Take this. Read it. I think that you may be reassured by its contents."

"What, is it your diary?"

"The notebook of a dear friend. He has passed now, but he wished for the next family to have it."

"Who?"

The man smiles, and Alfred thinks that there's more to that smile than he knows. "Arthur Kirkland."

"Wasn't he the last―?" Alfred's jaw drops. "W-wait, then are you―?"

"And if you are so close to your brother, there is no rule that only one person must be sacrificed," the man cuts.

"Who _are_ you?"

The man smiles again and waves before he disappears. Just disappears, like the wind blew him away into dust.

Alfred sits there for a long time. He reads the first few pages, trying to decipher the horrible handwriting and feeling himself relax slightly.

 _There is no rule that only one person must be sacrificed._

oO_Oo_oO_Oo

"Hey, Mattie!"

"What is it?" Matthew peeks out of his cocoon of blankets, his eyes red and wet. "Why do you look so happy?"

"I'm going with you."

" _What_?"

"Just read this!"

"You're not making any sense, Al."

"Come on! Just read it!"

Matthew sighs and reaches out his hand for the notebook.

Oo_oO_Oo_oO

Francis finishes writing, setting his pen to the side. A journal, one for each person he's known, and he just finished Arthur's.

A sad smile pulls at his lips.

But it's been years. Twenty-three soon. And today is _that_ day. So Francis gathers his robe and a fur blanket, the latter solely because of the humans' odd fascination with leaving people naked in the autumn air all day.

Today, once again, he needs it, but for two boys this time, oddly similar in appearance except for their eyes.


End file.
